Passing of an Age
by Hyfy
Summary: Jonathan and his children, in a room together for the last time.


The rich blue curtains in the room are drawn, letting in the crisp morning sunlight. There is a man with brilliant green eyes standing at a table to the corner of the room. In front of him is a pot of simmering tea, its heat rising like little curls in the cool spring air. A bed sits in the centre of the wall, superior craftsmanship evident without being ostentatious.

He seats himself next to the bed, and emerald fire flows from his fingers to the old king's labouring chest. The king coughs, and his breathing eases.

Jonathan has been like this for a while. He has barely enough energy to open his eyes, nevermind speak. The days blend together when all you do is lie in your bed. He wonders why he is holding on. Raoul is gone, Gary is gone, Alanna is gone. Of the old guard who have helped him to build the Tortall that is now — only he is left standing.

Haha, standing. There's a joke in there somewhere, if he felt like digging.

And then grief hits him all over again, as if his best and closest friends died yesterday rather than seven, four, and two years ago. Alanna, all fire and chilli and refusing to give up swordplay all the way up to the last day of her life, when she puts down her sword for a rest and slips away in her nap as her body decides time's up. Raoul, retired from active duty at the usual age but with fingers in the all the Own pies he could get his hands on. Gareth, his first friend and last to leave out of the four of them.

_Like puppies in a basket_. Jon has an intense yearning for their page and squire years, all over again. Youth seems both yesterday and an age away. He is grateful, at least, that he has managed to mend the rift that had been been growing between him, and Alanna and Raoul. None of them had ever really changed. Gareth had always understood his policies, but Alanna was a straight-talker through and through, while Raoul always preferred to bash up people whom he disagreed with. In the last twenty years, maybe they had managed to recreate a little bit of that camaraderie that all of them had missed so much. He almost chuckles as he recalls sixty-year-old Raoul casually tossing Alanna in a snowdrift. And getting whacked all over by Alanna for his troubles.

There is a 'click' from the door, and Crown Prince Roald enters the room. The years have deepened the creases in his brows and when he speaks, it is with the voice of someone accustomed to authority. Underneath it all, Roald still feels like the quiet and unassuming young lad who started page training so many years ago.

"How is he?" Roald asks.

"Worsening." Neal sighs. Duke of Queenscove and Chief of Healers for the last ten years, he feels like he's buried too many people in that span of time. "There are so many gods-curst people in this palace, he took an infection straight after I healed him of the last one."

It is then that Kalasin sweeps in, barely bothering to knock on the door. (_"People," Neal stifles the urge to groan._) Her nose is every bit as strong as her mother's, although she is not known as the beauty that her mother once was. She has already made up her mind that while she is in this room, she is Kalasin, daughter of King Jonathan, not Empress of Carthak. That can come later, in public.

Roald rises to hug her. Nealan gives her a bow, somehow managing to keep his eyes intent and watchful on the king the whole time.

"He was not this old when I last visited." There is a frown on Kalasin's face. She still looks as striking and regal as always, despite being close to sixty years of age. Roald understands. Their father had always worn his age like a cloak or a crown, something that added to his authority. He'd never looked.. Frail. Wax-like. Not like he does now.

"He went downhill fast after Mother died." Roald is quiet. Of all the children, he is the one who has seen the king the most. Seen him slowly decline as he paces the study where he first met Thayet, the energy-sapping burdens of grief convincing him to give up some duties to Roald as Thayet could never persuade him to do.

Jon lets the words wash over him, going in and out of consciousness. _Thayet._ He missed her, so much. Thayet, drawing a bow on horseback. Thayet, lying in bed as illness takes her body but it will never take her mind, and Jonathan is right there next to her, reading aloud the next volume of Kamanara-period Yamani poetry. (It was Shinkokami who had introduced her, and who was Jon to argue with his lady's literary choices?) Thayet, telling him to slacken his reins on Tortall and give the responsibilities to Roald while advising from the sides. It ensures continuity, my dear. For so much of his rule — his life — he has been advised and checked and supported by the most amazing woman in the world.

Someone once told him that women tend to live longer than men, he thought sadly. At least he will be on his way to joining her, albeit four years late.

There is a knock on the door, and Irnai is holding the door open for the rest of his children to stream in.

"They are needed," she informs a Neal-who-has-raised-eyebrows. Everyone in the room thinks maybe they know what she means, and Vania's eyes tinge the slightest bit red.

"Thank you for your help. Neal, Irnai." Roald says. Neal accepts Roald's subtle plea for some time as a family — how little they got of it, as the royal family! — and exits the room, one last burst of green fire washing over the king. The room is left with a family of dark hair and blue eyes.

The Conté family array themselves around the room. Roald remains next to the king's bedside while Kalasin takes over Neal's seat, ever the eldest children. Vania, along with Lianne, take tentative seats on the couch along the wall. They have not been in this room a decade, not with Tyra and Tusaine still recovering from the recent earthquake and their own need to be with their new peoples. It is only with the news of Jonathan's severe illness that they are granted leave to visit him, as daughters as well as ambassadors of their own countries.

Jasson leans with his palms flat down on the table, his pose not unlike the ones he strikes while at sea as Commander of the Tortallan Navy. His look is pensive, withdrawn. Across the room, Liam clasps his hands behind his back, feet spaced shoulder-length apart.

It's been so long, since they've had the family together. They couldn't even manage it for Thayet's funeral, thanks to the earthquake. Everyone thinks this, and everyone's hearts give another pang for the mother who was no longer here.

"The Bazhir send you their well-wishes, father." Liam's mouth is wry. He does not mention how he think the Bazhir are much wiser than the Corus city-dwellers, who have been leaving get-well-soon cards at the palace gates. Roald nods on behalf of his father, both as king-in-waiting and brother to the Voice of the Tribes.

Jon is tired. He is so, so, tired. It would be easy, to give up to the encroaching night that linger behind his eyelids. But his children are waiting for him. He opens his eyes, looks straight into Roald's — the same shape as Thayet's, he can't help but think.

"The Dominion Jewel," he says, and there is a little bit of a rush because in no time at all, the Jewel is in his right hand. With his left hand, he gestures to Roald to put his own hand on top.

Tentatively, almost shyly, Roald reaches for the Jewel. As his hand closes the upper part, covering it between his hand and his father's, there is a blinding flash of light that emanates from the cracks between his fingers. The light is white, but everyone in the room would have sworn there was a tinge of purple.

Jon smiles. "The Jewel recognises you as the new ruler of Tortall, now," he tells his successor. He can feel his strength fading; everything he is doing now a last sprint towards the finish line. Roald still looks disoriented. Gary would've said he looked like someone had suddenly hit him on the head. Jon still remembers his own joining with the Jewel — every root and towering tree, every soul in Tortall, seeming to charge through his veins and every crevice of his brain. At least Roald had time to process all of it.

Finally, Kalasin — it was always Kalasin — tires of the formality. They were not going to waste this precious private time doing any more stately things. Decade be damned, this was her family. And this is her father. She embraces her father, tears streaming down her face. "I love you, Da."

Those are the words that break the spell in the room. Suddenly the bed is a mass of people hugging, and Jonathan raises his hands in an effort to try and hold all his children together. If nothing else, this is his legacy, he thinks. These strong, brave, selfless children. They, next to Thayet, are the best things he's done in his entire life.

"Stay strong," he whispers to them. "Stay together." He doesn't know if the moisture on his face is from his tears or his children's.

His arms weaken, slacken. His children let go of him. For the last time, he closes his eyes. He sees a hooded figure waiting for him.

"Will I get to see Thayet?" Jon asks hopefully. For the first time in a long while, he feels like he's twenty again.

The hooded figure nods. And Jon is gathered into the Black God's embrace.

_At the end of the day, what had he achieved? A fairer Tortall. A better one._

_What had he given up? Only his life._

Roald is the first in the room to know, his healer's training alerting him to the signs. He bows his head, entire body still. His siblings are quick to catch on. The only difference is now they array around Roald and Kalasin, rather than dispersing the ends of the room.

Neal feels the magical line he'd placed between himself and the king fade, the line that Neal uses to check on his king's health. Neal knows when then line disappears entirely. Perhaps now would be a good time to distribute some of that soothing tea that must have finished brewing by now.

"The king is dead," he says softly. "Long live the king."

Then he knocks on the door, to perform his last healers' duties for King Jonathan IV the Great of Conté.

_In tribute to the late Mr Lee Kuan Yew,_  
_Founder and first Prime Minister of modern Singapore._

_He and Jon share many qualities, including being great leaders, political creatures, and giants among men._


End file.
